One for the Road: Mystery man

“No man is a complete mystery except to himself.”

– Marcel Proust, ‘In Search of Lost Time’

The other day, having idled for about five minutes behind a fellow motorist at the junction between Dunnes Stores and Omagh Library, just across the road from SuperValu car park, I began to wonder whether the short supply of common decency among the town’s road users had finally run out, or if perhaps the driver in front of me had some awful emblem emblazoned on his windshield.

“Jesus Christ, this boy would wanna have a swastika slapped across his window or else this town has gone to the dogs,” I grumbled.

Another minute passed – but still your man’s right indicator continued to blink.

By this time, I was losing the bap.

“Unless every one of you have a baby being born in the back, let the man out!”

It was then I noticed what looked to be family – two older people, who I took to be grandparents, along with two children, and a woman in an electric wheelchair – standing on the curb to my left, trying to cross the road.

The woman in the wheelchair had one of the weins on her knee, and the two of them, looking happily lost in a world of their own, were laughing away.

I reversed the van a few feet to create a bit more room, then waved them across.

I tried to catch the eye of the woman, or the wee lad on her lap, but the two of them, lost in their own world, didn’t notice me.

For some reason, I felt my heart, which a minute ago had been lifted by the mere sight of them, sink a bit.

But why? If what I had done could be construed as a good deed (which, seeing that I did little more than omit running them over, it probably couldn’t be), then I should have been happy with myself. But I wasn’t. Was I trying to be kind or was I trying to be noticed for my kindness?

But as I sat self-psychoanalysing, the fellow in front finally got away.

Now at the front of the queue myself, I forgot about the family I’d seen, about how they had briefly warmed my heart, and instead started cursing the drivers that drove by without as much as glancing in my direction; their unmoving heads fixed in position as though bound by invisible neck braces.

Then somebody flashed their lights and I pulled out, waving to signal my appreciation.

But they didn’t wave back, causing my gratitude to suddenly sour into resentment.

Technically, they had done exactly what I wanted them to do – let me out. But obviously that wasn’t good enough for some deep-down, needy part of me that wanted more – for them to acknowledge my appreciation.

A few minutes later, distracted by how weird my mind had been working during my short journey, I must have been coming a bit hard across John Street, when somebody stepped out in front of me.

I slammed the brakes and nearly hit the horn – but stopped an inch before impact, realising the idiot who’d stepped onto the road to be a friend of mine.

I braked, felt the paroxysm begin, recognised him, then felt it all wash away.

I’d nearly killed him – but somehow we’re are both laughing about it, chiding one another about how I’d almost become an accidental murderer and him an accidentally dead guy.

But as I drove off, I wondered why it mattered that I knew him.

How was it that adding the fact of familiarity to the equation had completely altered the result?

Nothing had changed but the name. A stranger gets the horn. A friend gets a laugh.

And me? I get to wonder what kind of person that makes me.